“I wonder whether you would mind doing something for me, Mr. Kent?” said Winnie after a pause. “Get the money out of Clytie's drawer for me. I have been so busy all day. Reggie is in bed with a bad cold and the house is upside down--and of course I have to come here. You see, I must use the money, or else Clytie would be hurt; it seems to me to be a matter of conscience.” “Or a matter of Clytie's telling you?” said Kent. “Well, perhaps it's that. One always does what Clytie says. So do you, Mr. Kent. Anyhow, I should like to have the money for the sake of obeying her wishes. Could you get it for me?” “Of course, if you will tell me how.” “Oh, that's easy. I have the key of her secretaire in my purse. She keeps her cash-box there. You can let me have it as it is. Will you?” “Of course. I will bring it round to-night.” The early winter twilight had fallen and scared shivering indoors the brood of unwashed children that possess these gray, sordid streets. Here and there women stood at the doors, their hands folded in their aprons, with little ones clinging to their skirts, chaffering with a costermonger, or exchanging shrill confidences with a neighbour. Most of the front parlours on the ground floor were lightless, with drawn blinds. Here and there a public-house beer-can gleamed white upon the railing spikes. Workmen lurched heavily along, now and then followed by shawled, bare-armed wives, vituperative. For it was Saturday afternoon, when the businesslike wife looks after her husband. Here and there from a suddenly opened doorway came the smell of many weeks' cooking. The poorer classes despise fresh air in their rooms--perhaps because they get it for nothing. Winifred stopped with Kent at a dark-fronted, dingy house, the facsimile of the forty other houses in the dingy row and of the forty opposite across the narrow roadway. A little girl answered her knock. “Mrs. Burmester in, my dear? Come, Mr. Kent, if you don't mind. I know the way.” Kent followed her up two flights of stairs, and into Mrs. Burmester's room. It was less squalid than he had imagined. A fire was burning in the grate, with a saucepan simmering. There were fairly substantial chairs, a table, and the ragged remains of a carpet. On a big bed by the side of the wall, not uncomfortable-looking nor unclean, lay Jack, tossing his wild elf head in delirium. By the side of the bed sat a nurse, whom the doctor had sent. Mrs. Burmester was spreading out the tea-things on the table. Her red, heavy face brightened momentarily when Winnie entered. “How is he now?” “Oh, mortal bad, miss. He hasn't had his senses all day.” “And the doctor--does he say anything?” “He said he would like a consultation,” replied the nurse, “but he did not know exactly whom to refer to.”